The Mirror Crack'd
by Hannah-1888
Summary: Severus wants to move on, but the Mirror of Erised is both a help and a hindrance. SS/HG


**Author's Note:** The title comes from _'The Lady of Shallot'_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. This story was originally written for the SS/HG gift exchange in 2011 using this prompt _The Mirror of Erised has been shattered, the pieces scattered throughout Wizarding Britain. Damaged, the mirror slivers show not the desire of the_ _bearer, but of another one who looks in the glass. How does Snape find the one who desires him?_

* * *

 **The Mirror Crack** **'** **d**

The sound of splintering glass rang loudly in his ears as he stared down at the mess he'd made. Tentatively, he put out a foot and nudged the shards of broken glass, before glancing around the chamber, as if expecting someone to appear and castigate him for his actions. There was no one, of course. He was very much alone in this part of the castle.

He turned his attention back to the frame before him. Large. Ornate. _Empty_. All those years ago, when Dumbledore had told him, rather cautiously, of the existence of the Mirror of Erised within the castle, he'd been unable to believe his luck. That fabled, priceless, _seductive_ mirror. And the hours he'd spent in front of it—the long tortuous hours over the years… Just to see her. Always just to see her.

To see her face. To evoke that smile. To remember that red hair… those green eyes. To remind himself of his guilt. To reinforce his resolve. To keep him going in those most desperate of times when he began to think he might not be able to do what needed to be done. But those days were gone now. The end of the war changed things for him. His debt to her was fulfilled, insofar as it ever could be. His guilt nearly assuaged.

If he snuck into the castle now—down the trapdoor, past the long worn-out flying keys and the broken chess set, through his own long-extinguished wall of fire and into the chamber beyond to glimpse the mirror once more, it was only with bitterness and resentment. She could smile at him from within that deceiving glass. She could embrace his reflected self. She could be all he ever wished her to be, but it would mean nothing, as always.

He was just a man who could not let go of the past, no matter how much he wished to. He was just a man who could return to that chamber year after year and see the same scene each time. A picture of lies and false reality. She was dead—had been so for twenty years. For more than twenty years her imaginary self taunting him with possibilities—very much imagined on his part. Proving herself to be not his deepest desire, but his deepest torment. And would she never go? Would she never leave him be? Could he never forget her?

But he'd _tried_. How hard he'd worked. And then to see, after everything, that same image fade into life in the glass, as if nothing had changed… as if nothing ever would change…

After those long years in the wilderness, he'd emerged the other side, and he still couldn't see his life beyond her. He might be admired for his loyalty but he secretly wondered why no one understood how debilitating it was. He had no lifetime of happy memories with her to sustain his devotion beyond her death. His love was born of deep unhappiness, unyielding envy and tainted, bitter memories.

He was sure now that it wasn't love at all. Not any more. He felt it was a single-minded obsession, which he revelled in because it justified his profound disaffection with life, and significantly, his unhappiness with himself.

The more he watched her smile and laugh in the mirror, the more his anger grew. The more the pain coursed through his veins. The more the injustice flared in his chest. He hated that smile. He hated that red hair. And he hated those green eyes most of all.

There was no stopping the harsh cry that ripped from his throat. His arm could not be prevented from rising up to thrust his wand towards the mirror.

The spell hit the surface squarely, loudly splintering the image of them together. Panting, he watched the familiar scene dissolve until he saw only his distorted reflection in the cracked glass. Some of the shards slid from the frame to scatter onto the floor. He picked up a large sliver now and looked into it, feeling a grim stab of satisfaction. Lily wasn't there anymore.

But his satisfaction was short-lived. His breathing slowed and he pressed a finger tentatively along the sharpness of the shard. He might not have to see her before him, but he couldn't shatter his mind in the same way in order to forget her. Because he didn't hate her, not really; not her smile, not her red hair, not her green eyes.

His eyes traversed the mess he'd made. If there was to be any time for him to let it all go, it would have to be now. It would have to be while he actually had some sort of autonomous life to live. Now or never. He wanted to prevail. He wished not to be beholden to her forever. She'd not haunt him continuously. He _would_ be able to let go. He couldn't carry on in the way he was.

But his thoughts felt hollow in his head; frail compared to the taunting certainty that, inexplicably, he would always love her and that no one else—nothing else—would matter.

And now he'd smashed the Mirror of Erised from sheer frustration and contempt for his weak will. Smashed it irreparably. Or he hoped so, anyway. He had no desire to see the mirror in its working form ever again. He bent to his knees and collected up the largest shards. It was a with a dry chuckle that he counted seven of them. Oh, he'd well and truly jinxed himself now, hadn't he?

He shrunk the pieces and placed them within his robe for disposal later. When—or if—anyone ever discovered this place, the mirror would not be for repairing. The inscription along the top would be the only clue as to what had once stood here. No one else would be tormented like he. No one else would have to face such mocking.

With a final contemptuous kick at the scattered remains, he turned on his heel and left.

Now there were no excuses.

* * *

Diagon Alley was bustling with people and Severus wished he could avoid having to negotiate the throng of shoppers for the sake of a few ingredients. But there was no way to elude it. He needed them today.

The apothecary, thankfully, was quiet when he entered. Rarely did this establishment attract a flurry of customers. He appreciated the peace and even the familiar smell for a moment, before stepping directly up to the counter. 'A handful of Flobberworms and two jars of powdered root of asphodel, please.'

The assistant nodded and hurried around collecting up the items.

'Stick it on the tab, will you?'

'St. Mungo's?' clarified the assistant.

Severus nodded.

Within minutes, he was back out among the crowds in the alley. While he was there, he decided he might as well pop into Potage's and collect up a few more supplies. That shop would likely be quiet too.

He started to venture across the cobbles, but made the mistake of glancing towards the window of Flourish and Blotts. He stilled in his tracks, his throat completely drying out with dread as he stared unwillingly at the large poster that hung in the window. The large 'Coming Soon' poster that displayed a laughing and smiling photograph of Lily and James Potter.

It was in aid of a book release, he realised. Rita Skeeter had written a book for the twenty-fifth anniversary of their death. Her new publication on the tragically short lives of Lily and James Potter. The everyday people who had sired the saviour of the Wizarding world and sacrificed themselves in the process. He ripped his eyes away and forced himself to move, unable, however, to ignore the shadow that had descended about him.

He wandered blindly around Potage's for about five minutes, before leaving empty-handed. Traitorously, his feet took him back towards the bookshop and he allowed himself to stare again.

It was the same every time. He thought he was managing. He'd thought the mundane existence that had seemed to come upon him in the aftermath of the war would put him back on the straight and narrow. Days went by when he wouldn't even think her name; when he wouldn't imagine her in his mind's eye. But some little token or memory would come to him unbidden and for days after he might spend long moments with his eyes screwed shut against the familiar tumult of confused emotions.

It wasn't what he needed—he didn't want her in his head. But even now, she would appear in the unlikeliest of places and remind him, tortuously, that she was never far away.

Why would it never end?

That book haunted him right up until its publication and beyond. For weeks, he avoided even looking in the direction of the book shop, fiercely determined that he would not waste his money on it. He would not bother himself with it. And when it was finally published (he stumbled across that date accidentally whilst reading the _Prophet_ ) he worked hard to ignore all thought of it. Because he knew if he got his hands on it, everything would be undone in an instant.

The first proper test of his resolve came from an unlikely source: St. Mungo's.

He much preferred being able to use the 'tradesman entrance' to St. Mungo's. This way, he could pretend he wasn't actually having to step inside the hospital; that is, until the smell hit him, of course. Still, his visits were only every fleeting ones. In theory, he didn't even need to be there himself, but he would trust no other mode of transport for his wares than himself.

Once inside, he'd be met by one of the apothecaries.

'Thirty phials of Pepper Up maximum strength; ten of Dreamless Sleep; and fifteen jars of Burn-Healing Paste.'

The apothecary, Briggs, opened up the wooden chest and inspected the contents within. The invoice was ticked, signed and handed to him with thanks, but before Severus could depart, his name was called.

'Severus? Hello there, I wonder if you have a moment to step into my office? I'd like to discuss how our trials are coming along.'

He was fairly sure she knew he had precisely nowhere to run off to, apart from back to his laboratory. And neither were they 'their' trials—they were very much hers. Nevertheless, he secretly appreciated the pretence.

'Certainly, Healer Granger.'

He followed her into her office, whereupon she sat behind her desk and beamed. He didn't like it when people beamed at him. Seemed to him to be an anachronism. She indulged in it far too readily, in his opinion.

'I don't think I need to beat around the bush,' she said pleasantly. He took a seat. 'We're seeing some really promising results from the anti-coagulants you developed. There's still some way to go before we can commit to anything, but it looks like it'll be a success.'

Severus barely heard what she was saying. All he could focus on was the book he could see poking out from beneath a pile of files on her desk. The cover was only partially visible, but he recognised it immediately. She was reading Rita Skeeter's latest effort. She was reading _that_ book. He felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden and shifted in his seat.

The urge to reach out and snatch the volume from its hiding place was strong, and he clenched his fists against it tightly. How he wanted to read it, but at the same time, to collect up every single copy and _burn_ the lot of them. Now, it seemed she was even in here, in his place of work. In the one part of his life he thought he could forget everything and just get lost in that old comfort of potion-making.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what was written in the book. He wondered what lies Skeeter had made up; perhaps she'd even accidentally uncovered some of the truth. What part did he, himself, play in it? Why hadn't Skeeter tried to make contact with him in the hope of getting a few quotes? How could Potter have allowed this to go ahead?

'Severus?' Her eyes followed the direction of his own.

He swallowed against the familiar rising of dread within him and he forced the memories of her away. 'Excellent,' he managed to say stiffly. 'Good news, indeed.'

It was just so tiring and so bloody wearing. Why did he have to be thrown into the past at every little sign of her? Why couldn't he move on? He nearly shouted it out to Hermione Granger, opposite him, in the hope that she might, somehow, make it so. She was a Healer, wasn't she? She fixed things, didn't she?

'Yes… As you are aware, we would, naturally, be interested in providing assistance to any other research you might be working on…'

He rubbed a hand briefly over his brow, as if the action itself could wipe away the clouds from his mind. 'Well, I have several projects on the go, but they are in their preliminary stages and I'd rather not talk about them at this juncture.'

She nodded slowly, offering him a little smile. 'Of course; I understand.'

When he left the hospital, he summoned all the willpower he possessed to Apparate straight home, knowing that if he got hold of that book, he'd never put it down. He'd be sucked into a whirlwind of bitter memories. If he read that book, it would linger in his mind indeterminately, leaving him indignant, angry, and above all, hateful.

His unease would pass, or at least become somewhat easier. It always did; until, that is, the next reminder came along.

The hospital seemed rather quiet when he made his delivery this week. Indeed, he enlarged the chest he carried back to its proper size, but there was still no one around to check everything was present and correct. He could feel his impatience begin to surface, never wanting to spend more time in the hospital than was necessary, when Healer Granger came out of her office.

'Hello, Severus, where's…? Ah, yes, he's on his break, probably. Never mind; what have we got?'

He watched her silently as she searched around for the right scroll of parchment.

'What's the date today?' she asked distractedly.

'The twelfth.'

'A-ha,' she chirped, unrolling the parchment and dipping a quill in an inkwell.

'Twenty jars of antiseptic salve…'

She glanced into the open chest and counted, before proceeding to tick off the parchment with a flourish and a superfluously muttered 'Yes,' to herself. And so the pattern continued until everything had been checked off to her liking.

'Lovely,' she said brightly, taking out her wand.

He often wondered how she could always be so cheery; even more so in mundane situations like these. He wasn't sure whether it was effort on her part, or whether it came naturally. He wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter.

Another wooden chest come floating over to the table, stopping in front of him, which he knew would contain a collection of empty phials, jars, and containers.

'The Quidditch season is starting up again next month, so we've upped the order of Bruise Removal Paste in particular. Will you be able—?'

' _Yes,_ _'_ he interposed, not quite hiding a huff of irritation. 'I shall manage.'

She appeared contemplative for a moment, leaning against the table with her arms folded. 'Look, I know we've discussed this before—'

' _Ad nauseum_.'

'I don't see—'

'I'm not bringing my laboratory under the jurisdiction of St. Mungo's,' he stated flatly.

'It would be far more convenient for you,' she pressed. 'You could have whatever equipment you liked. You could have assistance. More space—'

'There is nothing wrong with my current working environment.'

'It's your house, Severus; it—'

'It meets all the requirements laid out by the Ministry. If, for some reason, you are dissatisfied with this arrangement, then I will gladly terminate it.'

She sighed at length. 'That's not what I was saying at all… I'm just thinking of… Never mind; I'm sorry for bringing it up.' She smiled, a bit resignedly, he thought. 'If you'll excuse me, I have to begin my rounds. See you next week.'

He didn't care what she said. Their desire to get him permanently positioned within the hospital smacked only of one thing: keeping an eye on him and what he was making in his cauldron. Half of them wouldn't have the brainpower to comprehend the properties of the concoctions he was working on.

And if they wanted to find someone who was willing to accede to their wishes—producing potions at a supposedly more efficient rate, well then, it was fine by him.

Because he meant it; he didn't care.

How could he when there was something else that consumed him entirely? There was nothing left in him to care. No room inside him left to accommodate anything other than his confusion and his tiredness.

The same old thing, day in, day out. The same old thoughts and feelings. The same old battle against his thoughts and feelings. The same drudgery.

He shrunk the chest and put it in his pocket and stalked out with a sigh.

He had Bruise Paste to mix.

* * *

He was thinking about her again. Not necessarily pleasant thoughts; more like what his life might have been like if he'd never deluded himself over the nature of their friendship.

In grimmer moments, he wished to Merlin he'd never smashed that mirror. In moments like this, he would have pathetically made some excuse to visit Hogwarts and then… It was safe now to long to settle down in front of it and watch what might unfold, because he knew he never could. The one useful act he'd probably ever done for himself was to break that mirror. He could not decide whether to be relieved or reviled at his behaviour.

On the one hand, he could pretend his regret was purely intellectual, stemming from the fact he'd irreparably damaged a priceless magical artefact, the like of which would probably never be seen again. And it _was_ irreparable. He did not know where those shards of mirror he'd disposed of would be now. He'd taken them to the farthest corners of the country and rid himself of them. No one would recognise the pieces without the frame.

But… against his better judgement, if his judgement could ever have laid claim to such a state, he'd kept a piece of the broken mirror for himself. Why, he did not know. He'd seemingly broken the enchantment along with the glass, for, some years later, all there ever was for him to see was his own reflection. He reached now into the bottom drawer of a chest in his bedroom and removed the oddly-shaped fragment.

He wondered what Dumbledore would have thought to see the vaunted Mirror of Erised reduced to nothing more than a common-place looking-glass. Dumbledore was one to ignore the danger of the mirror in favour of rejoicing in it as a great feat of brilliance and talent. Only because _he_ had had the strength to rise above the torment of inner longing. Never mind the weakness of others. Let them waste away before it. Typical of Dumbledore to revel in his own superiority.

Severus looked in the one remaining piece of mirror; the only person to remember the true significance of its being, and pondered what he would see, had it been the fabled glass of old. Still her? Still the same old tableau? Still the same old lie? The same old impossibility? Or would it, somehow, have changed?

He found it hard to imagine it could be so. And now he didn't know what was worse; knowing for certain, or just conjecturing… Wondering whether he really was in the same spot he'd always been, and simply unable to see the truth of it with his very own eyes.

The mirror could have given him the answers he sought; but no more…

He took out his wand and, somewhat hesitantly, whispered a spell, closing his eyes tightly.

All was quiet and still for a slow, treacherous moment, until, shortly, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the face of the ethereal, silver doe.

No… he'd never change.

He could hear her talking to another colleague as he looked through this week's order. Healer Granger. He hadn't seen her for a few weeks; she'd, apparently, been overseeing some new initiative in the infirmary at Hogwarts. He grimaced to himself disapprovingly, but felt his heart still and the conversation fade from his hearing when he saw the potion written at the very bottom of the list.

'You know I cannot brew the Pox cure on my own,' he interrupted, trying to mask his disbelief.

Healer Granger paused in her conversation and turned towards him, whilst he felt an inexplicable pulse of hurt in his chest. Had she done this with the sole purpose of highlighting the deficiency of his potion-making outfit?

'Ah, yes, I wanted to talk to you about that,' she stated, crossing over to him. 'We've had our first case in two years, but, luckily, it seems to be isolated for now. We need to bolster our stock of cure, however, just in case. I thought you could either brew it here, with someone to assist, or I'll send someone to your laboratory.'

'No; I don't work with anyone—'

'Oh, you don't, do you?'

He did nothing except look at her defiantly, despite anticipating from her tone of voice that her usual patience with him was only going to be notable by its absence today.

'Oh, fine!' she exclaimed, suddenly snatching the parchment out of his hand and grabbing a quill off the desk. She proceeded to repeatedly draw a harsh line through the item at the bottom of the list. 'Fine; I'm sure one of our other suppliers will be happy to oblige.'

She slapped the quill down and turned on her heel, eventually disappearing into her office.

He was vaguely stunned by the abrupt change in her temper and wasn't sure whether to feel indignant or not. Sighing inwardly, he took his leave, feeling like his pride had just double-crossed him.

He Apparated into his living room, gathering suspicions that Healer Granger was right. His laboratory was in his house— _was_ his house, even. He spent more time in there than anywhere else. And most of that time was spent waiting; waiting and thinking, usually, whilst any number of cauldrons bubbled away quietly.

Sometimes he wondered if he was waiting for more than just his concoctions to thicken, cool, boil… or whatever. What it was he might be waiting for, however, he did not know.

And as for thinking; he thought about one thing above all others: the state of his life. His half-life. What was he doing, really, brewing these potions he could create with his eyes closed? Why was he stuck in this same old pattern, day in day out, month after month, year after year? He could probably do so much more with himself. If he only knew how.

He pushed his way into the workroom and half-heartedly stirred the cauldrons he had on the go, before collapsing onto a stool with a sigh. He unfolded the order from St. Mungo's and looked at the thick black scribble. He knew why she'd really given him that commission. He could command a tidy sum for brewing such a complicated and time-consuming potion. She was doing him a favour; he was just too self-obsessed to see it.

Was always the same with him.

Nights were always the worst. During the day, he felt he could function to at least an approximation of normal. His mind never strayed too far from matters at hand. But at night, lying in bed, his mind seemed to be at its most traitorous—his memories at their most tangible. He felt his most weary at night, too. He could use Occlumency, to an extent, to empty his mind, but that was tiring in itself.

Tonight, he sat up against the headboard and reached out for whatever reading material he had to hand. The words, however, only held his attention for a brief time, before his blood ran cold and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He could sense, instinctively, that there was something not right in his bedroom. Slipping his hand around his wand, he snapped his head up.

He saw it immediately. It was the mirror. That jaggedly shaped piece of mirror he'd left propped up against the wall on top of the chest of drawers. Something was moving across the surface and he shot to the bottom of the bed to see clearly. Expecting, fearing, to see red hair and green eyes.

But his body froze in mute confusion when he saw only himself—his black hair and his black eyes—merge into being in the glass. Only, he knew this wasn't his reflection. It couldn't be. This was something else entirely.

He got off the bed and put out a hand to touch tentatively at the cool glass. Nothing happened. His image in the mirror only watched, before moving to look at something Severus could not see. The piece was too small to showcase the full scene.

But he could see the slow smile spreading over his likeness' features. And when he comprehended it, disturbed, he grabbed the mirror and pushed it face down with a sharp intake of breath.

What… Could the mirror have mended itself? But… he surely had no deep desire to see himself smile! With caution, he reached out a finger and lifted the mirror upwards. Underneath, he spied only his frowning countenance and he let the mirror clatter back down again, the unsettling image of himself having gone.

Feeling cold and uneasy, for the first time, he considered that he really should have disposed of _all_ remnants of the Mirror of Erised. For it appeared, somehow, that it was no longer defunct.

* * *

'Have you found anyone to brew the Pox potion?' he asked stiffly.

He stood in the doorway to Healer Granger's office, watching as she peered into a drawer and then abruptly pushed it shut. It wasn't his day for delivering potions, but he'd come along anyway, feeling that brewing these potions might not be his greatest pleasure, but it was his job, and while he might not care very much, he had his pride. He would do his job well, at least.

'Not yet, no,' replied Healer Granger, looking at him in a surveying manner.

'Someone will have to come to me. I cannot leave my other brews unattended for an extended length of time.'

She nodded slowly. 'Very well, then. Thank you. Shall we say Monday?'

He indicated his agreement.

She rose to her feet and appeared to avoid looking at him for a moment. 'Also, ah, I apologise for my manner with you the other day. It was unprofessional.'

He shrugged his shoulders with unconcern. A bit of impatience was hardly likely to offend him. He knew perfectly well how difficult he could be. She smiled briefly and scuttled past him to continue her business elsewhere in the hospital.

When Monday finally rolled around, and there came a knock on his door in the early morning, he'd not expected that it might be _she_ who would come to participate in the brewing process. And honestly, he was dismayed at the decision, expecting it to be one further opportunity for her to not so subtly suggest that he was selling himself short through the premises and resources he chose to utilise.

'Isn't this a bit small beer compared to your actual duties?' he queried suspiciously, when he let her in.

'Oh, it's my day off,' she said lightly.

He nodded, feeling his shoulders relax a little. He didn't do days off either.

She'd only been to his house once before, and that was when she had come to certify his premises were acceptable enough to brew potions intended for public consumption. She'd been enthusiastic about his little set-up then, particularly when some of her counterparts had expressed reservations. So it stuck in his throat that ever more increasingly she seemed to be pressing him to take employment with the hospital. He had to wonder if she was being leaned on by those higher up who took issue with him and his sketchy reputation.

He wished she would just come out and say it, if it were so. He wouldn't blame her, but neither would he stay where he wasn't wanted.

At one point during the afternoon, however, she did touch upon the subject. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'for badgering you about joining St. Mungo's. I can see that it must be very nice to have such peace and quiet whilst you work.'

He hesitated, thinking for a moment how, actually, peace and quiet wasn't really all it was cracked up to be. Far too many opportunities for one's mind to drift into murky waters.

Nonetheless, he grunted in agreement.

'I just think your potential might be better served in a…' She trailed off at the look he gave her. 'Sorry; done it again.'

He watched her surreptitiously for a time and wondered why at intermittent intervals she would pause in her peeling or chopping and just stare at her chopping board. Then she would bite her lip or screw her eyes shut or shake her head, as if conducting some inner personal admonishment. He could not imagine what inner monologue this was, but he certainly would not ask.

When he went into his bedroom that night, the mirror, again, wasn't empty. With trepidation, he moved into a position where he could see the glass without getting too close. His likeness was visible and, once more, the sight was disconcerting. This time, he had even more of a feeling that he was missing the bigger picture. He felt that if his piece of mirror were bigger, he would see something more than just himself. Maybe even _someone_ more.

The thought gave him no comfort whatsoever. Perturbed, he hurried over to the glass and, far gently than he had the last time, placed it face down. He considered briefly that he could, probably should, hide the mirror away. But, though he did not like whatever it was that was happening, he knew he would have trouble simply forgetting about it.

It was a puzzle, after all, and he liked nothing more than solving them.

* * *

There was no tradesman entrance for him to use at Hogwarts, of course. He had to pass through the wrought iron gates and traverse the grounds in full view of anyone and everyone. The only plus was his deliveries to Hogwarts were infrequent.

Poppy received the chest from him with a minimum of small-talk and he was soon descending rapidly back through the castle, hoping to get out without getting accosted by any former colleagues. Hoping to get out before he was sucked into some unwanted reverie. His hopes were in vain. Halfway down the Grand Staircase, he paused, distracted by the thoughts of the Mirror of Erised.

What did he actually know about the history of the now defunct mirror? Very little. He was beginning to develop a theory as to what might have happened to it in its broken state, but he hoped to find rather more concrete reasoning to confirm his own suppositions. There was nowhere better to look than in the Hogwarts library.

As if in consternation to his dithering, the staircase he was on abruptly altered its course and sent him in the opposite direction. His decision made for him, he retraced his steps upward until he reached the floor housing the library.

He felt his efforts would be superfluous. In all of the many years he had spent in and out those Hogwarts bookshelves, he'd never once noticed so much as a reference, but that wasn't to say there were none. But he'd look anyway. Minerva wouldn't mind.

He scanned through books for most of the day, under the pretext of needing a potion reference, but as anticipated, he found nothing of use. There were a few comments regarding the proposed existence of the mirror, and what it was purported to do, but nothing he did not already know.

He left the castle, not for the first time, feeling slightly ashamed that he had effectively destroyed such a fine specimen of magical craftsmanship. Selfishly destroyed it in a fit of rage and self-pity. It had been hidden enough down in that chamber. And only very few people were aware of its continued existence within the castle. He shouldn't have broken it.

He shouldn't have been so damnably weak.

* * *

His image was in the mirror again, only this time, it was morning. He'd awoken a little later than his wont and had sat up to see himself… Except, it wasn't himself. He didn't smile in that manner. Probably never had. The man in the mirror looked, for lack of a better word, happy, and he doubted he had ever looked that way. Didn't know how he ever could.

As quick as a flash, the image faded from the mirror entirely.

 _What_ was going on? Had his inner longing changed after all? Was all he wanted was to see himself happy? He rather thought this was unlikely. Was the mirror simply tormenting him, as if to say "Take a look at what you could have been!" Was this his punishment?

Or if the mirror were bigger, would he see Lily standing next to him? Maybe the mirror wasn't as damaged as he'd imagined. He moved from the bed and went to stand in front of the mirror—to peer straight into it.

Just his tired, careworn face stared blankly back. Surely, if _any_ of this was a result of his own desires, then the images would appear when he looked into the glass. Whenever he did, he saw only his reflection as it is. Not as it could be, or even what he wanted it to be.

He fancied he could feel two shadowy hands of dread rest on his shoulders as he contemplated the fanciful theory that had slowly been forming in his mind might be correct. The possibility that he wasn't the only one to own a fragment of that revered mirror. The possibility that there was someone else, _somewhere else_ , looking into their piece of mirror… and that…

He pushed himself backwards from the mirror warily, comprehending the logic that if he could see the desire of another, they might be seeing his.

As quick as the theory had hit upon him, so did the reservations. He thought he'd hidden those pieces of mirror well. If Minerva had discovered the remaining remnants at Hogwarts, he felt sure she would write to him about it. And really, who on earth would have him as a basis of desire? It was implausible—incomprehensible—in the extreme. It was with a remarkable lack of self-pity, but a significant amount of pragmatism, that he thought this must prove his conjecture wrong.

But, despite himself, he could not dismiss it entirely. And he resolved right there that he would not place himself near that mirror ever again. He wasn't stupid. If anyone else did hold a piece of the mirror, unless it was an unsuspecting Muggle, then they might easily work out what it was. And it wouldn't be difficult for them to work out who might still long for Lily Evans twenty-five years after her death.

The thought that 'they' might know him, but that he did not know who _they_ were, unsettled him greatly.

And he hoped to the bottom of his heart he had it completely wrong.

* * *

He was early with his consignment of potions this week. The disturbance of the mirror had driven him to work non-stop in the hope that he might forget the trouble. It was late evening when he arrived at the hospital, two days ahead of schedule. There was always someone in the apothecary, or nearby, who would be ready to receive him out-of-hours.

One of the dispensers was there, twiddling his thumbs, by all accounts.

'Ah, Mr Snape. This is a surprise and I'm grateful for it. It's been a slow day today; everyone's fit and well, it seems!'

He watched disdainfully as the dispenser chuckled to himself, very much oblivious to the lack of humour in his visitor.

As Severus waited for his delivery to be processed, one of the doors was pushed open to reveal a lime green blur rush through the room. He prepared himself to issue a greeting, but she didn't notice him—her eyes fixed downwards as she burst into her office and shut the door.

'Healer Granger appears to be… crying,' he said contemplatively, not really meaning to verbalise the observation aloud.

The dispenser paused and glanced towards the closed door of Healer Granger's office. 'Maybe not everyone is fit and well, after all…'

Maybe Healer Granger shouldn't let her work affect her personally, Severus thought to himself uncharitably. Despite the initial reaction, he didn't feel so dismissive as he would have liked and he forced himself to return to the matter at hand.

'All present and correct, Mr Snape,' said the dispenser, who then looked around the room warily. 'Ah, before you go, I wonder if I could add an amendment to next week's order…?'

'A flask of Hangover Cure?'

'Yours is much better than that rubbish they sell in Diagon Alley.'

Severus nodded. 'Usual rate?'

'Wonderful…' the dispenser trailed off abruptly and started fiddling with his papers as Healer Granger entered the room again.

She glanced up and did a double-take when she saw them both. Severus would even go so far as to say she blanched slightly. 'Oh, hello; it's not delivery day, is it?' she queried, looking towards a large calendar that was hanging one of the walls.

'No; but this lot was all complete and I wanted to get it off my hands.'

'Well well; perhaps we don't give you enough to do,' she joked weakly. She looked tired and upset and he found it awkward to look at her. It didn't matter, for she soon set herself to bustling around the room, ostensibly looking for something and he only had to look at the back of her head. _Does she never go home?_ he wondered to himself. _What does she have in her life to avoid through immersing herself in her work?_

He looked away when she turned around with a bemused expression on her face.

'Arthur, _where_ have you put that file I asked to see?'

The dispenser cleared his throat uncomfortably. 'It's, um, on your desk, Healer Granger; where you told me to put it.'

Her eyes flew to her office and a potent blush darkened her cheeks. 'Oh… _Oh_. Thank you; excuse me.'

Severus watched her retreat back into her office, catching the eye of the dispenser who pulled a face as if to say ' _Merlin_!'

Severus ignored him and departed, feeling maybe a little disgruntled that she hadn't lingered longer. Even he occasionally felt the need for conversation, it seemed, and she was the only one who ever had anything interesting to say.

* * *

His refusal to acknowledge the existence of that shard of mirror he retained was still strong in his resolve. Whenever he entered his bedroom, he forced himself not even to glance in its direction, let alone turn it over from its position face down atop the chest of drawers. His mind, however, still trawled persistently over the little theory he had developed.

It wasn't entirely impossible that someone could have come into contact with another shard of the mirror. Maybe he should have taken more pains with regard to disposing of the broken pieces, but he wondered if, subconsciously, he had wanted it so the pieces might, possibly, be found and brought back together by hands far more skilled than his own. Maybe, deep down, he hoped to sit once more before the Mirror of Erised and see his life as it could have been.

He stepped towards his mirror, suddenly wanting to look at it. Even just to touch it, but he halted. The mirror would remain flat; out of view. He did not like to imagine there was someone out there seeing his most pressing hope unfold, when he could not even see it himself.

And he didn't want to see his own, _changed_ , self staring out at him. _That_ was the most curious incident. That was the incident which seemed to point to him being wrong about the mirror. Something must be causing him to appear in it, and not as a product of someone's inner longing; that idea was intrinsically preposterous.

He should forget the whole thing. He should dispose of the mirror and have nothing more to do with it. That would be the sensible option. He should dispose of it now. It was a reminder of what he was trying to forget. How could breaking the mirror be deemed a positive move on his part, when he could not forsake it, even it its damaged state? He snatched out his wand suddenly and aimed it at the mirror, briefly prepared to Banish it out of existence.

But his hand faltered and no movement did his wand make.

The mirror remained; the only concession made was to slide it under his bed, even more out of the way, but certainly not forgotten about.

* * *

'Thank you for agreeing to see me, Severus.'

Her courteousness never failed to make him uncomfortable. But his discomfort was lessened today by the sight of her tired eyes that seemed to take a certain refuge in studying the scroll of parchment she held in her hands.

'Some of us here have been working on an alternative to Skele-Gro, which as I'm sure you'll understand, is a bit of a sensitive issue. Skele-Gro is a trusted brand…'

'But an expensive one.'

'The owners of the patent are charging us through the roof because they know we have no other recourse. I'm of the opinion that a bit of competition never hurt anyone. It's still a rather thorny issue, however…'

'You're afraid St. Mungo's will be taken to the Wizengamot over accusations of plagiarising their recipe?'

Hermione nodded ruefully. 'If only we knew what the full recipe was. But you're right; and St. Mungo's can ill-afford to get involved in legal conflict right now.'

'So where do I fit in? Do you want me to take responsibility for the new potion so that I get sued instead?'

Her eyes sparked into life, briefly. ' _Oh_ , would you?'

'There's nothing I like better than waking up to a court summons…' he murmured.

A small smile touched her mouth. 'Actually, I was just wondering if you would cast an eye over the method we've devised? A second opinion from an uninterested party is always welcome.'

He took the scroll of parchment off her and unrolled it, scanning a languid eye down the page. He looked at her. '"We've devised"?' he questioned dryly. 'This is all you.'

She blinked and he thought he saw a faint, pink blush form in her cheeks.

'I read enough of your ramblings over the years, after all,' he explained, before she could protest.

'Ah yes,' she declared, looking a tad uncomfortable.

'Although towards the end, I only ever bothered reading your opening and closing paragraphs.'

Her jaw slackened momentarily, before she recovered and scoffed dismissively, finally looking more of her usual animated self. 'You didn't.'

'Didn't I?'

'I don't recall there ever _not_ being some waspish comment left of my work, so you must have read it.'

'Are you implying my waspish comments were on the mark, then?'

She opened and closed her mouth. 'Not… _all_ of the time… But fine, yes, this is my own work. I've not mentioned it to anyone here yet, and I won't until I know whether the idea has legs or not.'

He did more than look over the recipe; he started brewing it. Why he had the desire to complete it in its entirety, he wasn't quite sure. He suspected, however reluctantly, that it might be because he felt he owed Healer Granger. He could not express gratitude to her in words, but he always felt that by providing the very best workmanship he could, it justified the faith she placed in him.

He wasn't unmindful of the risk she had run by convincing the board at St. Mungo's to enter into a contract with him. He'd not asked for her help, but she'd given it whole-heartedly, citing that it was the least she could do "after everything…" He couldn't agree with it, but he'd not been in any position to refuse, at the time.

He could recall very easily encountering her for the first time following the war. It had been in Gringott's bank. He'd nodded an acknowledgement, but she'd eagerly complimented him on an article he'd managed to get published in the _Practical Potioneer._ Still _,_ he couldn't really remember how the conversation, the brief conversation they'd had, could have inspired her subsequent letter in which she'd outlined an opportunity for him at St. Mungo's.

And she'd done it all by the book, to the point where, though he'd wanted to balk at what might have been perceived as charity, the professionalism she'd displayed would have made any histrionics on his part ludicrous. So he'd accepted; maybe even a smidge gracefully, though that might be going a little far.

He'd not ever really had any cause to regret it.

He sometimes wondered, however, whether she would be able to say the same.

* * *

The mirror was occupying him again. He was sitting in bed with it lying before him on the covers. Moments earlier, he'd dropped his wand to the floor and, reaching a hand under the bed to find it, his fingers found instead the cool glass of the mirror. Before he could even think about it, his hand grasped tighter, as if eagerly ready to pull out the shard of mirror.

He'd done it. He'd swiped it out from under the bed and dropped it on top of the bed to look at it, as he did now. There was nothing on the surface; nothing apart from the reflection of the ceiling. He flipped it over, still thinking there could be someone, somewhere, privy to his most pressing inner hope.

It was all so very odd, but he realised now that he did not want to leave it open-ended. If he could prove his theory correct, then it would mean there _was_ someone in the world who held him at the fore of some secret longing. The nature of that longing, he did not like to contemplate, but from what he had seen, it did not appear that they wished him ill.

He had no idea as to how he could determine the facts regarding the current state of the mirror. It was rather unlikely he would be able to find this unknown person who had, ostensibly, found one of the pieces he had hidden. And he was beginning to think he might actually want to discover their identity. It was with no sense of narcissism or vanity that he thought this; just a needling, enticing curiosity over the possibility that someone out there even bothered to think of him at all. How could he fail to be intrigued by this?

He was not so blind as to realise that all he'd ever wanted, since a boy, was to be liked. Pathetic and as sorry as it sounded, it was, nonetheless, the truth.

The laboratory in St. Mungo's was empty but for one person, and he stood there for a good few moments before Healer Granger roused herself from her thoughts and noticed him. He recalled how many times he'd seen her in absorbed in reflection lately, and when she finally spoke, her voice retained a sombre edge, despite the small smile she gave him.

'Oh, hello; what brings you here today?'

Severus approached the bench and sat down on the stool next to her, removing a large flask from his robes. He set it down on the table and looked at it for a moment, twisting it about with his fingers pensively.

Her eyes fixed on the potion but she seemed in no hurry to ask questions and he wondered what else was on her mind. Maybe he'd hoped for a better reaction from her.

'I took the liberty of making a few alterations to the method you devised…'

She stirred into life then. 'You mean…?' She lifted her hand towards the flask and looked at him questioningly. He nodded and she took up the flask, tilting it slowly back and forth.

'It's rather viscous, isn't it?' She flipped up the lid and put it to her nose. 'Mmm, not a bad smell, either.' She smiled appreciatively. 'Do you think it's ready for trialling?'

He hesitated. 'I think, as far as I can tell, the potion is sound with regard to its purpose, but I am concerned about its shelf-life.' He lowered his voice carefully. 'Skele-Gro, as you know, is easily stored and its efficacy diminishes over a period of years, rather than weeks or months. I'm not sure this mixture, as it is, would last as long.'

'Well, it's simple enough then. Do you have more of the mixture?'

He nodded.

'We shall place the potion under several different storage conditions and monitor its decomposition. If it's not satisfactory, we'll have to rethink. I'd rather have a more clear-cut case to present to the powers-that-be, and I'm going to need a good one to convince them we might be able to ditch Skele-Gro. Even if we cannot match the shelf-life of Skele-Gro, as long as I can prove the cost-efficiency is as good, if not better, then that's fine.'

He wondered who "we" constituted. She was the one who had the ideas and the impetus to mould them. He, well, he was just floating along; passionless, without interest it seemed, and throwing the ingredients together—brewing potions because there was nothing else out there.

'Thank you,' she said, after a moment during which she'd watched him silently. 'I didn't mean for you to go to all this trouble…'

He nearly scoffed aloud. Trouble? She always seemed under the impression that he had some fulfilling life to live beyond the walls of St. Mungo's… He could not imagine where she got it from; why she persisted in such etiquette.

When he returned home later and began bottling up the rest of the potion for delivery to her the next day, he tentatively wondered if he was wrong to think so negatively. Maybe his mind was easier than it had been in weeks. He placed the flasks into a small chest and warded it with a few locking charms before retreating to his bedroom. There were often periods like this, where he felt he functioned almost to an approximation of normal. To be a part of something—that's all he needed. He knew the theory was a simple as that. Why else did his thoughts drift back to his past if not because there was nothing in the present to occupy them?

But no. As if in punishment for daring to consider such a thing, his mind now sought to betray him. Brewing a few potions was never going to be enough to sustain him long-term.

He pulled out the piece of mirror, without thinking, and studied it from a distance. He hadn't seen his alter-ego appear in the glass for many days now. He wondered what it might be like to be that man and he… Scowling, he turned his back, irritated with himself for becoming steadily more obsessed with this little phenomenon he'd discovered; forcing himself to remember that what the mirror showed always meant nothing in the end.

It was not so easy to distract his thoughts, however. Thinking of the mirror of old, and of himself, he pondered if he could peer into that unbroken looking-glass whether he would find he was still the same as he'd ever been. Was it still _her_ who took up all the space for his hopes and aspirations? Was she still as far as he could ever see of himself?

In his mind's eye could see her red hair, and her green eyes, and her soft smile—always smiling at him—and he lowered himself onto the bed wearily. Closing his eyes, his mind conjured up visions and images and sounds and feelings and there were so many that, to his shame, he sometimes forgot what was real and what his deluded imagination had created.

And it was that muddle that always frightened him the most.

He arrived at Healer Granger's house the following evening bearing the Skele-Gro substitute he had promised. He'd never been in her house before and he found himself glancing surreptitiously at his surroundings. It struck him how little he knew of her private life. What did she do outside of her work? Who did she see? Was her life as barren as his own? He rather hoped not.

'Want a drink?' she asked, surprising him slightly when he got into her living room.

He nodded, feeling it would be easier than fumbling around with some excuse. Not that he wanted to avoid her company, but he felt an awkwardness in her personal environment that he did not within the professional confines of St. Mungo's. He found himself being reminded of their shared history; specifically, of course, Hogwarts. For a moment, it was Miss Granger handing him a glass, not Healer Granger, and he frowned inwardly. He'd taught umpteen children during his career as a teacher, but he hardly ever came into contact with any of them, apart from her. And if there had ever been one he thought he might hold a conversation with beyond their initial acquaintance as teacher and pupil, it had certainly not been her.

'I have something for you to look at,' she announced, leaning over the side of her chair and pulling open a cupboard. She withdrew a book, but his interest over what the book might contain was rather more secondary to the glimpse of Rita Skeeter's biography of Lily and James Potter. It was only peeking out from around the side of her chair, but he spotted it as easily as if it had been placed directly in front of his face. Why was she _still_ reading it? It was months ago that he'd last seen it in her office.

'Tell me what you think of this man Archer's new debate on the potential use of non-magical plants in potion-making.' She stood and handed the book to him with a smile. 'I'll just go and put these potions away safely.'

She picked up the chest and, when she had gone from the room, hardly realising his own actions, he dropped Archer to the floor and sprang to his feet. Instead, he snatched up the book he'd resisted for so long. His breath came out in a long sigh and, with resignation, he flicked through the pages at random. Immediately, his eyes fell to a photograph emblazoned across the whole of a page. His breathing slowed and his heart pounded. It was a wedding photograph. _Their_ wedding photograph. James and Lily.

He could remember that day like it was only yesterday. Drinking himself into oblivion had been the only way for him to suffer through his imaginings of them smiling together, laughing together, dancing together… _happy_ _together_. He could recall how he'd been afraid to even glance in the direction of a _Daily Prophet_ newspaper, in case he'd see the article announcing the success of their day. See pictures of her looking far more beautiful than even his imagination could conjure.

A sick feeling settled in his stomach as he took in pictures he had never seen before. He swallowed down the shame and resentment he felt at his weakness and his stupidity. He didn't know how many moments passed during which he was aware of nothing but the pounding of his heart reverberating around his skull. He didn't know how long he stood there until he was startled out of his daze.

'Or, yes,' sounded a quiet, flat voice from the doorway. 'You could just read that, I suppose.'

He looked up to find Healer Granger watching him with an expression he was sure she hadn't directed at him since her schooldays. He feared it might be contempt. She walked up to him and took the book from his hands. He made no attempt to resist. Grimly, she took the book over to her bookshelf, her expression obscured by her hair.

'Photographs don't really do her justice, do they?' she said suddenly, her voice a parody of detached contemplation. 'Everyone always goes on about her eyes, but… _I_ think I like her hair the best. Very striking. Very pretty.'

She shelved the book and looked at him blankly. 'Don't you agree?'

Severus suddenly felt as if he didn't know her. Which, in turn, made him wonder for how long he'd been labouring under the impression that he did know her.

She folded her arms under her chest and sighed to herself, giving the impression that she was seeing something in this situation that he, frankly, could not. He only stared at her, hardly knowing what to say or do. For the first time in their acquaintance, she unsettled him.

'Well, actually, Severus, I have some reports I should be getting on with, so, ah, thank you for bringing round the potion…'

Her expression inscrutable, she turned away, dismissing him. He was grateful to leave, but he found himself thinking her for most of the night. Her unusual behaviour. He'd never heard her sound so… it had almost been bitterness and scorn. Yes; she clearly scorned what must appear to her as his pathetic weakness. He was no stranger to scorn, and he'd learnt over time to let it wash over him. But somehow, it seemed to matter that he'd ignited it within Healer Granger.

When Lily fluttered into his head, he jumped to his feet and paced about, angry with himself for never failing to give her a way back in.

In a fit of self-pity, and before he could stop himself, he was taking out the mirror and looking into it, forgetting that he should be keeping his distance from it, and hoping, abstractedly, that he might appear in the glass.

He did not.

* * *

It was a couple of weeks until he saw Healer Granger again, but when he did, it was on his doorstep. He opened his front door to find her brandishing a copy of the _Evening Prophet_ in her hand. Before he could register surprise at her being there, she spoke.

'Look at this,' she muttered, shoving the newspaper into his hand.

Warily he stood by, feeling he had no choice but to let her in. As she past him, she left a trail of perfume behind her and he watched her pause in the doorway, rather than look at the paper. She looked tired and grim, yet, oddly highly strung, as well.

He nodded for her to go in and then he glanced at the paper.

'It's just a different method of re-growing bones,' she muttered. 'Why does there have to be such a fuss?'

Someone had spilled the beans to the _Prophet_ about the Skele-Gro alternative. The article, however, took the viewpoint that St. Mungo's were trying to cost-cut by developing cheaper, sub-par medicines.

'Do you think _I_ tipped them off?'

She frowned deeply. ' _No_ … Of course not. I just… This may cause a stir and I wondered if you thought I should drop the whole thing. Deny the existence of another potion…?'

He threw the paper onto a table and sat down heavily. 'What do I know? I just brew potions.'

Wasn't for him to decide what was in the public interest with regard to healthcare. He caught a glimpse of her un-amused expression and realised she hadn't come to him for flippancy.

'The mixture you've developed is defensible as original, in my opinion, should you want to get it into competition with Skele-Gro. Moreover, it will be just as effective, I'm sure.'

She looked uncertain. 'My boss wants to see me first thing on Monday morning, so much depends on what he thinks. He was angry, however, I did not inform him as to what I was working on.'

'You could claim it to be a private venture. It was all done at your own time and expense…'

Why had she come to him, he wondered. Why choose him to speak to? Was it that she didn't trust any of her colleagues following the leak to the newspaper? Was it only because he had been directly involved in the potion's evolution? The thought that during a time of uncertainty she should think of him left him peculiarly exhilarated. And maybe it was this—the difficulty of pioneering new development within the staid Wizarding world that was causing her strain.

'Don't give up on your work, Hermione,' he said quietly. 'There's nothing wrong with intellectual discovery, especially when it's in hands as capable as yours.'

He was unused to compliments. Both giving them, and indeed, receiving them, and so that such words would trip off his tongue so easily, surprised him. But he could admit to himself that he did not like seeing the shadow of doubt darkening her features.

She seemed suddenly very uncomfortable and looked anywhere but at him. 'Thank you, Severus; I think I probably shall stick at it. I sometimes just wonder, what's the point…? And…' She broke off abruptly and got to her feet quickly. 'I'm sorry, I should go…'

His instinct was that he should have liked her to stay, but something about her composure led him to only nod in acknowledgement. 'What is the matter?' he might even have wanted to ask. What was causing her mind to be elsewhere? He saw it in her face; the pensiveness—the distraction of something going on entirely behind the eyes. He knew it because he had often seen it on himself.

Several days later, the _Daily Prophet_ were still pontificatingregarding the trialling of new medicines at St. Mungo's and specifically, Healer Granger's role in pioneering it. Severus felt grim with anger as he read what he could only term baseless smears. He had no doubt they emanated from the owners of the Skele-Gro patent. Who else but they would want to decree Hermione Granger a negligent crackpot for "exposing the nation to suspect new creations"?

 _What else is being tampered with_? asked the article. _What other corners are being cut to save money?_

He flung the paper into the fire and vowed, admittedly for the umpteenth time, never to read such rot again.

His vow, again, was short-lived, for only the next day, his own name was splashed all over the paper with regard to what the _Prophet_ had managed to turn into a veritable storm in a teacup. Some of it was a rehash from when it had first become public he was brewing medicines for St. Mungo's. _Should a former Death-Eater be trusted with such responsibility?_ There was an "inside source" proclaiming him to be "closely involved" with far more serious medical developments within the hospital.

He didn't bother reading the rest of it. There was no need. He'd read it all before.

He wasn't surprised this time, however, when a knock on his door sounded and he opened it to reveal Healer Granger standing there with an uncertain expression.

'May I come in?' she asked formally.

He nodded, feeling his eyes drawn to her as she brushed past.

'I'm so sorry for that rubbish in the paper, Severus.'

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. 'Did you write it?' he replied flippantly, sitting in his chair.

'You know what I mean…' she admonished. 'It's my fault—'

'Look; I don't care.'

'Excuse me?'

He moved his hand in a dismissive gesture. 'I don't care what gets written about me in the _Prophet_ or anywhere else for that matter. If people choose to doubt me; fine. If St. Mungo's don't want me in their hospital; fine. I just… don't care.'

She looked offended and didn't speak for a moment, as if trying to compose herself. But when she did speak, it was in a quiet, resentful voice. 'Yes… there's only one thing _you_ care about…'

Instinctively, he knew to what, to _whom_ , she was referring. Through the surprise of it, there was a stab of indignation in his stomach as he comprehended another burst of scorn from her. Maybe he'd misjudged her all this time, after all. 'And what, pray, would you know about it?' he hissed with threatening calm, fearing he was woefully unprepared to have Lily suddenly brought up as a topic of conversation in this way. Unwilling, also, to fathom why she should do so in the first place.

She stared at him defiantly for several moments. 'No; you're right,' she began in a contemplative voice. 'I don't know what you care about. I don't know what you think about. I don't, actually, know much at all about you.' She smiled to herself grimly, before flicking her hair behind her ear and turning her head haughtily so she didn't have to look at him. This was a new side to her, he realised. And he didn't like that he couldn't decipher the meaning of the irony he detected in her tone.

He elected to ignore this odd tangent they'd embarked on, thinking he probably knew the reason for her antagonism. 'Are you in trouble at work?'

It was her turn to shrug her shoulders now. 'They're not happy with the attention of the _Prophet_ and I… My patience, admittedly, has been a bit thin lately; doesn't help.'

He felt she had that right. Where was smiling, pleasant Healer Granger these days?

'Tell them it was all me, if you want. My idea; my resources; my influence… whatever you like. I'm sure they'd go easy on you then.'

Her mouth opened in surprise. 'No…' she murmured, faintly aghast. 'Don't be silly.'

'Why not?' Seemed to him to be a good idea. He wanted to make things easier for her, he found. He would like to see her back to her usual self. And this, similarly, he realised, was a new to side to himself.

'Because, of course, _you_ don't care about repercussions for yourself…' She shook her head to herself and broke off into silence.

He took interest in watching her contemplate her hands and wondering what her next words would be. Why did it matter what repercussions faced him? Eventually she looked up, but got to her feet, and he disappointment that she might be intending to leave. But she didn't head for the door. She approached him instead; not in any suggestive way, but entirely gravely. When she leant slightly on the arm of his chair and looked at him, he found her proximity unsettling and couldn't meet her gaze.

'And why don't you care?' she asked quietly, a faint heat appearing in her cheeks.

He couldn't get any words to come to his assistance.

'Why?' she repeated more boldly and he couldn't help but look to her now. 'Why don't you care that it could mean the end of your business with the hospital? Let's face it; your only means of making a decent living.'

Still he said nothing, wanting only to tell her to be quiet. Uneasy by this very personal approach she was suddenly utilising.

'Because for the longest time, there has been no room left in you to care, hmm?' she offered pensively.

He was sure he'd stopped breathing, straining to hear the scorn in her voice but detecting none, this time.

'All of it in here, taken up by… her.'

He felt her hand touch his chest lightly and suddenly it was the only part of his body that held any sensation. He glanced down at her fingers, afraid his lungs were going to start heaving. Did she understand, after all? Did she understand him? How was it possible when he had said nothing to her of his difficulties?

'Why do _you_ care?' he asked in a burst of feeling, surprising himself by the directness of his question.

She frowned and took back her hand. Her expression faltered, as if she could tell this wasn't inner narcissism talking, but genuine confusion. He thought she'd probably prefer the former. She appeared to be in two minds and said nothing for a good few minutes, during which he watched her shift and turn her head away, folding her hands in her lap and looking at them broodingly. Eventually she issued a little tired sigh and her voice sounded quietly.

'We've worked together for a few years now; why shouldn't I care?' She got to her feet, putting distance between them. She stood before the fireplace, staring into it with her hands clasped behind her back. 'Do you… still wish you'd died in the Shack, Severus?'

He flinched, taken aback. She caught his shocked expression and carried on talking, eerily calm and mild, as if talking of some mundane occurrence.

'I was in and out of St. Mungo's a lot in the aftermath of the war. I looked in on you a few times, when the Healers would let me. No one was really sure whether you would live. I happened to be there when you first stirred. The Healers, in their haste, left the blinds in your room open, and I looked in to see if you were all right. You were not, of course. You were very distressed, and confused, probably, and then…'

She stopped and he wondered what gave her pause. He couldn't recall any moment of his waking up. In fact, he recalled very little of his hospital stay until the run-up to his discharging himself. Certainly hadn't known she'd witnessed any of it.

'You appeared to assimilate what had happened…' she continued, turning to him, 'and then you… laughed. The most terribly bitter and ironic laugh I have probably ever heard. A laugh fuelled, as I realised later, by disappointment. Disappointment that you lived.'

His throat dried out.

'Disturbed me, for a while, but, it may interest you to know, I was inspired too. I decided right there and then that I would be a Healer. I was in no position to help you, but I resolved that, one day, I would be in the position to help someone.'

He wondered if she realised she might finally be in a position to help him now. He suddenly wanted to tell her things he'd never told anyone. He wanted to talk to her about Lily. He wanted her to help him.

'It became important to me, following that moment, what happened to you. I'll not apologise for it.'

He, actually, didn't want to scoff with contempt at her sentimentality, as he thought he might have done, once upon a time. But what _could_ he take umbrage at? She'd never pestered him with any patronising virtuosity. She'd never interfered. It was enough to know that, even years after the fact, that someone had thought of him at all.

He watched her smile to herself wistfully.

'I'm not sure that in my case, living or dying makes much difference, Hermione,' he finally managed to say, thinking back to her original question.

Her expression darkened as she met his eyes, before nodding to herself, as if agreeing with some something she'd just thought of. 'Yes… I can see why you would consider it so.' She folded her arms and tilted her head quizzically. 'Which leads me to wonder… what kind of woman holds a man's unyielding devotion for so long, Severus? Is it the woman Rita Skeeter wrote about?'

He couldn't have answered even if he'd wanted to. He felt paralysed; dumbfounded by the genuine curiosity in her voice. He could only watch her warily as she approached him again. She dropped to her knees and put her elbows on the arm of his chair, resting her chin in her hand contemplatively. 'Suppose it's too complex to pin down into words, hmm?'

He wasn't required to say anything, he could tell. She seemed content to have this conversation with herself, not even looking for him to give a response.

'I admire you your loyalty,' she said suddenly. 'Despite, ah… No, I do admire it, very much.'

An almost pained smile arrested her mouth and then she was up on her feet again. Her hand touched his shoulder briefly and then she was gone. He stared blankly into the space she had stood, unable to even get the barest of handles on what her unusual behaviour meant.

An uncomfortable sense of foreboding provided the resistance he needed to prevent dwelling on it. But it was the very same foreboding that led him to think of that little piece of mirror that lay hidden in his bedroom. His thoughts, he knew, would do well to steer clear of such fancies, and he spent the rest of the night ensuring that's exactly what they did.

In only a few days time, he was back in her office in St. Mungo's. He wasn't there by her invitation. The company behind Skele-Gro had hit her with a threatening letter and she was visibly riled. He didn't know why he thought he could get away with it, but he did it anyway. He'd never touched her before, but she looked so frazzled and unlike herself that he felt real concern. In her pacing up and down, she moved by him and he put a hand on her shoulder, as if to calm her down, but her reaction was instantaneous.

She flinched awkwardly and manoeuvred herself away. He curled his fingers into a fist at his side, fearing that it might very well be hurt she'd elicited within him.

She started talking about the results she'd gathered with regard to the potion and there were certain factors about her he noticed now. He wondered whether he'd just chosen to miss them before, or if they were new. For one, she didn't hold his gaze for very long at all. Her cadence of speech was distinctly measured and business-like. And her facial expression was rather immobile. He rather thought they were new features to her.

As for his noting that he liked to hear her talk, and that he always liked sitting in her office and looking at her possessions—that she was interesting. Well, he was quite confident he'd missed those points before. She was proposing a modification to the recipe, on account of some concerns regarding the shelf-life of the potion. He barely heard her over the noise of the clamouring thoughts in his head.

'Do you agree?'

She had finished talking and he struggled to appear comprehending.

'May I have a look?' He reached across the desk to take the scroll on which she'd recorded her modifications and he saw the small tremor in her hand as she dropped the scroll—as if it had burned her—and folded her arms defensively across her stomach. That gesture was beginning to be very familiar to her, he thought.

He pretended not to have noticed anything as he took up the parchment, but the room was filled suddenly with an oppressive tension that he was hard pressed to understand. People flinched from him with fear, or distaste, but… He steadfastly ignored it; spoke with not a hint that anything was amiss.

Her expression became vacant as he talked about other avenues with regard to the potion. He knew she wasn't listening to him. He knew her mind had wandered inwards; her eyes watched him bleakly.

 _What is the matter with you?_ he nearly shouted when she finally came back to herself, to start nodding vaguely at what he was saying.

He left the hospital much preoccupied. And for several days his thoughts lingered on Healer Granger and the odd change he noticed in her. The next time he visited the hospital, she was nowhere to be seen, and relief filled him first. Relief that he wouldn't have to get into a thorny, unsettling conversation with her. And yet, despite himself, he nevertheless felt a mixture of disappointment and concern, finding himself straining to hear of sound or talk relating to her. There was nothing; not a sight nor mention of her, and he left feeling unsure. Was she simply avoiding him? And was this a sign he was discovering a hitherto unseen vanity to his character? He scoffed to think he could be enough to make her hide away from him.

The following week, when he arrived at the laboratory, he found her rummaging through a filing cabinet. His throat clenched and his mind emptied so thoroughly, he felt that if anyone asked him to list the properties of a Bezoar he'd be left floundering. Luckily, one of the assistants took his delivery off him and startled him into life again.

He nodded a greeting at her when she turned and saw him, and while she smiled briefly, she was soon gone, tending to patients, he assumed.

He left feeling significantly vexed. He thought of Lily, and then his thoughts turned to Healer Granger and he wondered just what it all meant. It worried him that he couldn't think of one without the other, these days. He wished someone else could work it out for him, for he had no idea how to untangle it himself.

He was afraid this developing interest in Healer Granger might be him sensing an opportunity in her. An opportunity to seek in her what Lily had never given him. Did he look at Healer Granger and see Lily? Was he that kind of man? Was he that entrenched in the past that he couldn't even see the rationality of his behaviour anymore?

Or did he really just care about Hermione Granger?

But it seemed, as it had for a long time been, that the damned mirror would have the last word. And ironically enough, having spent so long seeking that mirror's counsel, he wished he done more than simply smash it. He wished he'd erased every single bloody atom of it. Because more than ever, he wanted to stand in front of it and see inside himself. To see clearly; to have clarity.

But what was the use, in the end?

There were potions he could brew to aid his suffering mind. Potions to make clear his unordered thoughts and confused feelings. But he was sick of relying on other quarters to tell him his mind. If he could not work out what he wanted, well then, how on earth could he expect anyone else to know?

He sank onto his bed and closed his eyes. He should work it out for himself. Not rely on magical artefacts—not put faith in an inanimate object.

He summoned Lily into his thoughts and contemplated more seriously and confidently than he had ever done so, whether he might, in fact, be able to manage without her, after all.

He could try, at the very least. His energies, he felt, what few he had, might do well to be focused elsewhere. Somewhere, possibly, where they might even be needed.

* * *

Severus wasn't sure how he came to be standing in front of number twelve Grimmauld Place. Had to have been several years since he'd last stood before it. The place hadn't changed one bit. He stepped up the door and knocked briskly, hoping that no one would be at home to answer.

His hopes were in vain. The door opened and Harry Potter's startled countenance appeared.

'Hello,' he uttered with no small measure of blank surprise. 'What, ah, what can I do for you?'

Severus pushed away all impulse to Apparate away. 'I'd like a word, if that's… acceptable?'

He was shown into the library, endeavouring to ignore the confused and wary expression of the younger man, and looking instead to the somewhat familiar surroundings. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. There was someone who no longer plagued him, at least. Sirius Black—there was only indifference left to feel toward him now. If he could allow that bitterness to fade then there was surely more of the past he could let go.

Unless he had it wrong. Unless all of this, maybe, signified an increasing weary apathy, rather than any desire to get his head out of the past and live unfettered and free.

Harry cleared his throat and Severus stirred, reaching slowly into his robe and pulling out a small wooden box. Swallowing down the indecision, he quickly placed it on the coffee table, in front of the fireplace, and then unconsciously stepped back from it.

'This is… I've collected up a few items that once belonged to your… mother.' He allowed himself another glance at the little box. 'I thought you should probably have them.'

'It's not a lot,' he continued, when Harry only stared at the box. 'Still, I'm sure they'll be of no small amount of interest to you…'

He wanted to march straight from the room, then. Straight out of the door and away before the urge to change his mind came upon him. And he feared that it very well might.

Harry looked up. 'Don't _you_ want them?' he asked carefully.

Those little mementos—photographs mainly—had reminded him often over the years of what had needed to be done. Had inspired him to do, if not what was right, then at least what was necessary. But they'd also, like a lot of things, had sustained his never to be fulfilled longings and his bitterness.

'It's not a matter of want,' he admitted, shaking his head slightly . 'It's a matter of need… And I don't need them anymore.'

Harry looked like he wanted to say more, but Severus didn't give him the chance. 'I must go; good day to you,' he said distantly, before making swiftly for the door.

There were no physical reminders anymore, then. No object to hold in his hand and trigger a litany of emotions. No Mirror of Erised to look into and see what could have been. Now, there were only memories.

And he finally wanted new ones. He knew that much, at least.

* * *

It came to pass that he was forced to pay better attention to the rubbish that abounded in the _Prophet_ than he otherwise would have liked. Several angry voices were given an outlet in the newsprint to lobby St. Mungo's into making clearer just who was responsible for developing and trialling new medicines and treatments.

And the fuss did not die down.

He arrived at the hospital with his usual load of flasks and phials, only to find Healer Granger awaiting him dismally. There was no opportunity for him acknowledge the thoughts that passed through his mind when he saw her or allow his mind to drift back to far pleasanter meetings between them.

Inside her office, she sat behind her desk and sighed lengthily, passing a hand over her eyes and scowling to herself.

'I'm sorry, Severus; I've misjudged this situation entirely.'

Initially, he thought she might be referring to personal matters between them, but though he increasingly sensed something cloudy between them, he really didn't know what, precisely, it was. Her topic of conversation, he decided, was more likely to do with work, and he was right.

'I have been… told I am not allowed to renew your contract with us when it runs out next month.'

He made no sound nor movement.

'I've been reprimanded for allowing someone who is not an employee of St. Mungo's to get involved in clinical matters.'

He allowed himself a resigned smirk.

She understood his expression perfectly. 'I know!' she said with frustration. 'I know; your input has never been kept secret from them. They've always known. It's this fuss about Skele-Gro and those idiots at the _Prophet_ who haven't got anything better to write about.'

She sprang to her feet and folded her arms with a huff, pacing, before pausing with her back to him. 'It's my fault. I should have foreseen this… '

'You did see it.' He realised now why she had always tried to get him under the employment of the hospital. It was to avoid situations like this. And again, he wondered just how hard she'd fought to get him where she had. 'You tried to prevent it, but I wouldn't let you.'

'Yes, well, ultimately it was my responsibility… But I enjoyed too much having… you around…'

His ears only just picked her mumbled words and he felt he wasn't supposed to have done.

'Hermione,' he began, wanting to say some of what he felt. And none of it was about the job. With alarm, he found all he wanted to say was that his indifference wasn't as absolute as he'd thought. That he did have it within him to care. For once, he was sure he'd got his own feelings right in his head. He could care about her for who she was, and not for another person she might have been. It didn't even matter if it wasn't what she wanted to hear—that she didn't think of him in that way. But, inevitably, the words wouldn't come to his throat.

'I realise that while _you_ may not care, _I_ do,' she interrupted imperiously. 'It's not fair and I'm not going to stand for it.'

'Don't tell me this is some ridiculous 'if you go, I go' pact?'

The derision in his voice caused her to turn around and he was stunned to see her eyes were full of tears.

'What are you crying for?' he asked dumbly.

She collapsed into her chair and pressed a hand to her eyes. 'Sorry,' she said unevenly. 'I'm just… fed up, sometimes, I…' She sucked in a steadying breath.

'What loss is it to anyone that I no longer brew potions for St. Mungo's?' he posed, struck by her emotion. 'There's always someone else to move into position. What difference does it make to me, apart from materially?'

When she'd regained her composure, she caught his eye and he let the corner of his mouth twitch into a furtive smile. In time, her eyes crinkled and she looked away, shaking her head.

'You're impossible,' she muttered. 'A person can be too laid-back, you know.'

'Ah,' he said briskly. 'That's what living life on the edge for so long does to you. You forget to give a toss about the little things.'

'But what will you do?' she asked in a small voice.

He didn't know what he would do. He could only think on how it would mean he would not see her with any regularity anymore.

'No,' she burst out suddenly, jumping to her feet. 'I'm not going to stand for it.'

He had just enough wherewithal to catch her arm as she rushed past. She halted abruptly and stared down at his hand.

'Leave it. It doesn't matter.'

She studied him for several moments and he felt it was the longest she'd looked at him in a while. It irked him that he could not entirely decipher her expression, but he thought the slight clench of her jaw when she muttered, 'No… I suppose it doesn't,' suggested an edge of resigned bitterness aimed squarely at him.

'Do not think me ungrateful…'

She blinked and her expression cleared somewhat. 'Very well.'

She took back her arm and retreated back behind her desk. He could only recall how it had trembled beneath his hand.

When he left, there was only that sense of apathy that seemed to be encroaching on him all the time as he processed he would soon be jobless. So something else in his life had gone wrong. It was almost comforting, really. He was used to being at this point.

He went home and methodically, indifferently, emptied out each cauldron he had on the go. Mixtures for St. Mungo's; for Hogwarts; his own personal brews; they all went the same way. And he felt nothing as he watched them go. Why should he?

When he did feel, it made not one whit of bloody difference. So what was the point?

He removed to his bedroom and found the shard of mirror from its hiding place. He twirled it over and over in his hands, mindful of the ominous, almost ridiculous theory that lurked in the recesses of his mind. The theory that he did not want to unleash in case it proved yet another false reality for his mind to latch onto and fixate.

He tapped his nails against the glass, wishing, however, that he could block from his mind the desire to ask Healer Granger if she had ever encountered the Mirror of Erised before.

* * *

This was his last visit to St. Mungo's. He was returning a selection of books and equipment that Healer Granger had thrust upon him over the course of their working relationship.

When he got there, however, it was with no small amount of surprise that he noticed there were no candles lit in her office—that it was shrouded in darkness. Briggs noticed the direction of his stare and sucked in a breath.

'Healer Granger's taking a few days' leave,' the apothecary commented. 'We all thought it best, really. She hasn't seemed herself lately.'

Severus fought not to display any sign that he was bothered by this. Instead, he simply raised his eyebrows as if to say, 'What the deuce is it to me?'

'Her office is open, if you want to leave the books on her desk.'

He went in and set the books down. Looking around the deserted office, he thought of her recent distracted manner and wondered if she'd been forced to take leave. Was taking on Skele-Gro really such a problem? No, something else clearly had to be bothering her. He half debated whether to go round to her house and see her, but the more he pondered on the idea, the more he felt he should leave her be. He didn't like her recent behaviour with him. He didn't like her detachment; her unsettling air of preoccupation; her choice of conversation. He was afraid as to what it all might add up to.

He looked out, beyond, and saw that Briggs had gone to attend to his duties. He looked back down at Healer Granger's desk and, though it was an undeniable breach of privacy, began scanning the contents of it, hoping to find a clue as to her trouble. His hand hesitated before turning to the drawers. But he opened them one by one, only glancing into them briefly. There was nothing of interest until he reached the bottom drawer. When he pulled it open, there commenced a loud rattling noise. He looked downwards, mouth opening in surprise when he saw the tiny pieces of smashed mirror scattered within the drawer. He touched them lightly with his fingers, knowing instinctively that they were not the pieces of any ordinary mirror. He might very well be surprised, but not because events were not making sense.

He shoved the drawer shut and marched straight out, Apparating as soon as he could to her house and knocking on her door. There was no reply. He couldn't say precisely what led him to his next move, but before he could determine his line of reasoning, he was standing in front of the gates to Hogwarts. Then he was taking the steps two at a time, up the Grand Staircase, up to the third floor. And then he was looking down at the trapdoor, the foreboding that had been lurking within him for some time pushing through his body to leave him tingling expectantly.

He finally allowed himself to speculate what he had striven to avoid—that she might be in the same trouble he'd once been in. Not stopping to dwell on the potential frailties of his theory—the real possibility he'd conjured this all in his head—he opened the trapdoor and lowered himself downwards. As silently and as quickly as he could, he passed through the each of the chambers, keeping his mind from hurtling towards unfounded conclusions, until he reached the final, cavernous room. A significant part of him hoped this would prove to be a fool's errand, but standing where his wall of flames had once burned, his breathing faltered as he stared down at the sight of Hermione Granger, Healer Granger, sitting cross-legged in front of a _half-restored_ Mirror of Erised.

He stared incomprehensibly at the mended glass, still missing large fragments—the pieces he'd once disposed of. He stared unseeingly at the back of her head as she thumbed through a book in her lap.

'Show me _my_ heart's desire,' she muttered to herself. 'We don't want his. Not red hair. Not green eyes. Ah…'

He watched in a daze as she raised her wand and started mumbling quietly in Latin.

'What… What on earth are you doing?' he asked in soft surprise, fearing what might happen if her spell, whatever spell it was, succeeded.

She yelped immediately and shot to her feet, spinning around with her wand outstretched. 'What are _you_ doing here?' she stammered, flushing brick red.

He crossed right over to her. 'What are you doing with this mirror?' he asked more forcefully this time, half wanting to grab her arm and fling her out of the way.

He looked to the mirror and then at her. Her breath was coming in laboured movements, and then, resignedly, she was slowly turning her face back to the glass.

'What do you see in the mirror, Severus?' she rasped weakly, closing her eyes. 'Tell me.'

He forced himself to return his eyes to the mirror, the patchy surface of it, and swallowed down the trepidation that stung sharply in his throat.

'I see me,' he began unsteadily. 'And I see you…'

She seemed to deflate next to him; droop like a wilted flower.

He saw them both, it was true. But not as they were, standing there together. He didn't need to point that out to her, he felt.

'I thought you might,' she whispered. 'I'd hoped to see it for myself.'

He looked, almost in horror, at the effort she'd made to repair the mirror to its original state. And the book, he knew, would contain some enchantment she thought might assist her in re-establishing the mirror's true purpose. And all to see her heart's desire… What he could see, but she could not.

He didn't ask what she saw in the mirror. The terrible reality was falling into place around him. Red hair and green eyes, she'd said to herself. Still her, then. Still Lily.

He looked to his side, watching in involuntary fascination as she looked down at a lock of her brown, frizzy hair and then to the mirror. She pulled a curl taut, so that it was straight, and there was a dissatisfied frown on her face.

'What are doing?' he spat roughly, wanting to take her chin and turn it from the mirror, whilst trying to grasp what it meant that seeing the reflection of Lily Potter would cause her so much pain.

She sank to the floor suddenly and crossed her legs, bowing her head. She chuckled and shook her head. 'You must think I'm a right nutter.'

Severus glanced at the mirror and years of mental anguish flashed before him. 'Hardly that,' he murmured pensively, deciding also to sit down and keep his eyes from the scene unfolding in the mirror.

And it was she who had conjured his image in the mirror as, deep down, he had already come to realise.

There was a feeling of stunned amazement he hadn't felt in a long time, if, indeed, he had ever. He wasn't flattered. He wasn't overjoyed. He wasn't grateful. He wasn't even uncomfortable. He was crushed with an overwhelming dismay that he had, however inadvertently, caused her hurt. She'd seen Lily in the mirror, and as much as he had hated himself over the years for his continued preoccupation with her, he felt that hate suddenly intensify within him, to the point where he thought he felt physical pain.

'I'm sorry…' he let out in a dazed breath.

He'd been sorry, in more ways than one, many times in his life to know the truth of it when it hit him. And it had done so now; very squarely in the chest, it seemed. He'd never considered, never allowed in his wildest imagination, that it would be _her_ … And yet, the truth of it hadn't been too far away, if he'd chosen to look properly.

She didn't look at him, but cleared her throat and said, 'Not your fault; it was mine for getting so wrapped up… You didn't force me to have feelings for you. And I suppose I've always been a bit intrigued by the mirror. I'd never seen it before, and I wondered—was tempted by the idea of it giving me clarity when I realised I needed it. When I was working with Poppy, I snuck down here, only to find it was in smithereens. I was disappointed; I took a piece away with me and I don't know why I did.'

Severus watched her look at her hands, thinking on how familiar this tale was.

'Bit of a shock, I grant you, when I looked into it one day to check my hair, only to find Lily Potter had hi-jacked my reflection.' An ironic smiled curved around her mouth. 'I couldn't help but be fascinated, despite the reality of the situation, that you still felt so strongly for her... And I was sure the reason I could see was to do with _you_. Who else could it be?'

He clenched his hands into fists, thinking about all the times he had seen his alter-ego in the mirror, while she, somewhere, had been looking at Lily.

'But the more I thought on it, the more I began to feel as if she was something for me to strive towards—wondering if it had got so bad that my deepest desire, actually, was to… be her. Be like her. Look like…'

She broke off and he was glad. It disturbed him to imagine how she had become to be haunted as he. He felt anger with himself. Frustrated that he still hadn't managed to move on. He knew what it was to see the person you… cared about have eyes only for another. He knew how the inadequacy felt; how the injustice pricked at you irritably; and how the discontent gnawed away. He hated that _he_ could have inspired those feelings

Her eyes lifted to the mirror again and his anger surged through him potently.

'Stop thinking about her!' he snapped suddenly, causing her to jump.

Embarrassed, she wiped her hands on her robes and struggled to her feet. 'Sorry; should have known I wasn't worthy enough to even—'

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he was on his feet, taking several swift steps forward to block her path to the steps. And when she made to force her way past, he clasped her arm. He felt it tremble beneath his hand again; not from fright, but from something else entirely, and he knew precisely what it was this time. Whatever he wanted to say dissolved on his tongue when he saw her eyes shone with sadness.

'I don't spend my thinking about _her_ ,' she muttered stubbornly. 'I spend my time thinking about _you_.' She heaved a great sigh. 'And maybe you thinking about her,' she added deprecatingly.

He should let her go, he knew. But he felt overwhelmed; fascinated by the depth of her feeling. This was another new side to her. Her face was turned downwards, and he was quite sure he was poised on the edge of some unknown precipice he wanted no other choice but to step off. He touched her chin and there was that flinch again. He probably had never done anything so brash as he did so now, when he kissed her.

It didn't last very long. She reared back, blushing bright red. 'Don't.'

He heard her, but ignored her, wanting only to recapture that peculiar tingling feeling he'd just experienced. However, she shook her head forcefully and he let his hand fall back to his side reluctantly.

Next thing he knew, she was snatching it back in hers, whilst a lone tear fell down her cheek. It should have been foreboding enough for him, but he chose to ignore it, fascinated, again, by the depth of her emotion. She dropped his hand again and swiped at her face, looking angry with herself.

A sense of what he was doing and the wrongness of it was beginning permeate through his single-minded focus on her nearness, and he thought he should retreat. He was prepared to do just that. She was upset; it seemed even to him that he could be taking advantage. And maybe she read that resolve in his face, for something spurred her into throwing her arms about him with a small whimper and kissing him so hard he might have winced, were it not for the fact that he didn't care how hard she hurt him as long as she stayed right where she was.

But she was evidently stronger than he was. He pulled away when he thought his lungs were going to burst and she hurried backwards, breathing heavily.

'No,' she gasped. 'You want a palliative for… _her_ and I won't be one.'

She looked almost relieved at her declaration; surprised, but pleased, with the strength of a resolve she, perhaps, had feared might not be available to her. This was the difference between them, he noted. He felt she would be able to face the truth and walk away and move on in the way he had never been able to do so.

A person could say he was acting to assuage his own guilt. They could say he was naïve enough to think this a good idea—to give her the attention he'd never received in his own misery all those years ago. They could think him disgustingly and _stupidly_ patronising, he thought.

And yet, he couldn't kid himself. In amongst his much confused and conflicting feelings, he knew he did care about her in a way that was real. It was real because he could feel it when he looked at her. It was real because he felt faintly sick when he contemplated how she thought he could use her in such a way.

She did not yet know the proper truth.

'I don't want a palliative. I don't even need a cure.'

Her mouth turned downwards in disagreement, eyes on the floor, but he liked that she no longer looked sure of herself.

'I once said that I didn't care,' he began awkwardly. 'Made out there was no room left in me, but that's not strictly true—'

She shook her head forcefully, finally looking at him. 'Please don't feel you have to say these things. It's fine; I'll be fine. I know where I stand; I always did,' she stated without bitterness. 'I know where you stand. This was just the last vestiges of… folly, let us say. Please let us forget about it.'

He shook his head minutely.

'I'm a big girl, you know. Can't really blame you if you wish I was… someone else…' She broke off, a look of significant consternation on her face. 'You don't have to apologise.'

He felt a sickly stab of indignation. What kind of a man did she think he was? The only thing preventing him from departing, was the realisation that, were he in her shoes, he'd likely have felt the same. Feared the same.

'You're wrong,' he pressed. 'I don't look at you and wish… Imagine that you are… _her_. You've become…' he groped around for the right word, 'special—'

To his surprise, she groaned loudly and put a hand over her face. 'Oh Merlin,' she exclaimed, shaking her head dismally. 'I expect that sort of trite crap off most men, but not off you.'

His offence now increased tenfold and he stared at her, embarrassed. His silence seemed to throw her and she uncovered her eyes to fold her arms across her stomach in that defensive gesture again.

'Severus…' she whispered pointedly, ' _she_ _'_ _s standing right behind me_.'

Unbidden, he felt his blood chill as he looked past her into the mirror, but it was empty to him. It would always be empty to him. He took out his wand, stepping past her and flinging the hardest spell he could think of at the mirror. The jet of light hit the glass and propelled the mirror backwards at speed. He felt only satisfaction at the clattering and splintering noise that reverberated around the chamber as the mirror crashed to the floor. He sent another jinx at the glass for good measure. And another. And another.

Hermione yelped in astonishment. 'What are you doing?' she cried.

'What I should have done the first time I smashed the mirror,' he murmured raggedly, looking with triumph at the now useless, tiny splinters of the Mirror of Erised. The only thing he ever wanted to see in any mirror ever again was his own reflection. Nothing more.

She moved to inspect the mess more closely and he took umbrage at her dumbstruck expression.

'Don't tell me you wanted to preserve it? After all the misery they've caused? After the _centuries_ of misery it caused?'

'Well…' she stuttered uncertainly, 'I'm just not sure that—'

'It's a mirror. It shouldn't have a hold over anyone, but it's had one over me for too long. And you; you've allowed it to plague you as well.'

She looked from the mess to him, shrugging her shoulders sadly. 'But it showed us the truth…' she offered softly.

Those simple words focused his mind. The truth was it? 'Tell me, what was Lily doing when you saw her in the mirror? How was she?'

She blanched at his line of questioning. 'She was just… there…'

He approached her determinedly. 'So what is there to say the reason she is there is because I am still in love with her?' It made his blood curdle to talk about himself in this manner, but he couldn't see any other way. 'She might be there because I wish for her approval, or for her forgiveness, or for her… pride… Or because I wish I could have saved her that night…'

'Are you saying you aren't in love with her, then?'

He tried to pretend he hadn't heard the pang of doubt in her voice. 'The _only_ person who can tell you why she was in the Mirror of Erised is me. Iam saying that yes, I am not in love with her in that way anymore.'

He'd never said that out loud and, for a brief moment, he feared there would be a flare of indignation in his chest, revealing to himself that his words were wrong. Or he would be struck down for uttering something that seemed so blasphemously a lie. But there was nothing, of course, because it wasn't a lie. He saw that she remained unmoved, however, and he clenched his jaw, feeling a wave of irritation over the fact he clearly wasn't getting his point across.

'You're not willing to consider the possibility that my feelings could change?'

'In theory, it's possible,' she commented with a nod. 'But the reality of a twenty-five year or more precedence tells me something else.'

Sighing, he turned away and kicked some of the glass that had scattered across the floor. He rubbed a hand over his face. It wasn't as though he could dispute her logic. And it wasn't as though he couldn't understand it as a basis for reservation, but the need to justify himself rose so swiftly in him that it took him a couple of moments to form his thoughts into words.

'Isn't it any wonder it lasted that long?' he asked finally. 'When was I supposed to let it go? When I inadvertently caused her death? When I threw in my lot with Dumbledore and had to find the inspiration to bide my time indefinitely? Or maybe I should have let go of her when I had to face her son day in, day out? What have I had in my life to replace her? There was _nothing_ preventing me from living in the past. Doesn't mean I wanted to, though. Tell me…. _You_ tell me what should I have done differently.'

She looked away uncomfortably. 'I don't know…' she admitted quietly.

So she didn't know any better than him. Maybe it was his own fault for letting himself get so entangled in the past, but it did not preclude that he might not finally be able to let it go. That's what he'd been striving for in recent years. Didn't that say a lot in itself?

'I've been trying…' he began, but cut himself off. Maybe she would say he hadn't tried hard enough. Maybe she would say he'd been deluding himself into thinking he wanted to let go, only because he thought he should. He decided, then, to push aside his pride and be rather more forthright. 'Could you trust me when I say that when I look at you, I have no thought for her?'

She looked downwards, unable to meet his eyes, and he felt a pang of hurt. It seemed to be an impasse between them, because he could not think of anything more to say. Could not think of anything more to do. The irony she didn't realise, of course, was that he would not go home and think of Lily; he would go home and be unable to think of anything but her. He sighed, knowing he was defeated.

'Maybe it's just gratitude,' she ventured softly. 'You've never seemed to have much interest in me at all. And now you're renouncing a near life-long devotion to proclaim allegiance to _me_?' She laughed quietly.

'Haven't you listened to a word I've said?' he hissed. 'I've been waiting for years for a…'

He paused; at a loss. He took a look at her and she was completely still; what she was thinking about, he could not guess. Her gaze was directed at the mess of the mirror and he followed it to the glittering pile of broken glass. Deep resentment bubbled in his stomach and he scowled, longing to take a hand, scoop up the glass and throw it impotently.

'You will only accept magical proof, will you?' he found himself spitting out angrily. 'I've destroyed the mirror. As an alternative then, perhaps you'd like to accept my feelings only when my Patronus has changed?'

Her eyes snapped up and widened as he conjured his Patronus; the silver doe leapt sprightly into being.

'Oh, well, that must mean I'm still obsessed with her, doesn't it? That I can't look at another woman without seeing her!'

She watched the doe for some time, before uttering a quiet 'No.'

'And why's that?'

'Because… _my_ Patronus hasn't changed.'

'There's still always good old-fashioned Legilimency. Do you want to take a look inside my mind and determine for yourself whether my feelings for you are real? Perhaps we could make it a regular thing? Once a month, we can check the integrity of each other's thoughts and desires. Makes you wonder how the hell Muggles ever sustain relationships, doesn't it?'

His sudden turn into flippancy she appeared not to appreciate. Still, he sensed she understood the point well enough, but she continued to say nothing. He took a step towards her. 'Veritaserum…?' he suggested tiredly, feeling he was treading too close to desperation for it to be borne.

She shook her head silently.

'Or you could just…' He clasped her wrist and brought her hand to touch his chest where his heart pounded against his ribs. He felt embarrassed then and stepped away.

'No… I agree,' she said eventually, nodding. 'It's no way to function—using Magical means to provide evidence of feeling. It's no use being in a relationship without faith or trust.'

He steeled himself for one last try. 'I love her differently now. She was my friend and I bear some responsibility for her death. That is something I shall never renounce. If you will always doubt me…'

He waited with bated breath, afraid to anticipate what her next words might be. He felt some of the tension drain from him when he detected in her eyes that her resolve was pliable, and the challenge to bend it in the right direction suddenly thrilled him. It was increasing confidence that inspired this thrill; confidence in knowing his own feelings, and the realisation that this was one worthy cause he'd be well off pursuing.

He stepped right up to her and she stiffened, her arms immediately coming up to fold across her body; a gesture full of defiance. He almost felt like mimicking her posture, but teasing her at this juncture, he felt, would do him no good.

'You saw Lily in the mirror, but everything else you created up here.' He pointed a hand to her head, appraising her pensively. 'Like I have done, far too often over the years.'

She exhaled lengthily, turning to look at the mass of glass on the floor.

'How could you be a palliative?' He raised his eyebrows in challenge when she glanced his way. 'How could you be second-best to something that never existed?' Despite her stance, she let him lean in close to her as he continued. 'I never had such conversations with her as I have with you. Never had such shared experience. Never held her. Never kissed her…'

Their lips touched briefly, and he watched her to gauge her reaction. Her eyes bored into his, but they were oddly gentle as her hands grasped his face and she whispered, 'But how many times did you imagine it, Severus?'

He was immobilised for several moments, and any confidence that had burst within him dissipated. When he regained his presence of mind he stepped backwards. She could not see beyond Lily's shadow, that much was clear. He thought he'd understood how she must have felt, but clearly, he had no idea. It was for people like him to be filled with crippling self-doubt; people who wouldn't know self-esteem if it hit them in the face. Not a bright young thing like her. She could not trust him, after all.

'Your resolve does you credit,' he mused thoughtfully. 'But where has your faith in yourself gone? You let her trample all over it without resistance. It is this inconsistency that I regret most and understand least. What happened to confident Healer Granger who decided she could convince a board of sceptics to take me on? The woman who decided she could be the youngest Healer to ever run her own department?'

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked mournfully at the floor, saying nothing. He couldn't stand it any longer and turned on his heel to step up the stairs. When he'd moved through the archway, he heard her footsteps sounding quickly behind him. He hesitated, wondering at her haste, but she did not stop, only tugged at his sleeve for him to continue onwards.

It was only when the trapdoor came into sight that she slowed and released him. Her shoulders relaxed with a sigh, as if grateful to be out of that chamber. She made no move to open the trapdoor, however; she just stood there staring indecisively into the ether. Finally stirring, she turned to face him fully.

'Healer Granger was undone by a depth of feeling she hadn't felt before,' she said, her mouth quirking a little self-consciously.

He said nothing, able to tell she wasn't finished articulating her contemplations.

'I'm not sure I want to be strong, Severus.' She eyed him with uncertainty. 'Because I fear, in this case, it might prove to be a synonym for stupid.'

It wasn't exactly the firm response he would have liked. Yet, he understood it. He knew better than anyone that worries and doubts and feelings cannot just be turned off and forgotten about.

'Perhaps we could… start off at scratch, then?' she suggested tentatively. 'I'd like to try that.'

From the beginning, then. Only a fool, he was sure, would turn his nose up at the chance she proposed. A chance to prove to her, and also to himself, that he was capable of moving on. And there would be no magical interference this time. It would just be himself and he would ensure it would be enough.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned away to flick her hair back from her face, smoothed down the front of her robes with her palms, and blew out a breath as she faced him once more, looking the epitome of business-like.

'Hermione Granger,' she stated boldly, holding out her hand. 'Lovely to meet you.'

He stared at her hand, amused by her antics, before looking up and becoming gratified to see a reciprocal trace of amusement in her expectant countenance.

'Severus Snape,' he replied, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. 'A pleasure.'

She smiled, tentatively at first, but it grew in strength. 'Let's get out of here'. He breathed out in relief as they moved up through the trapdoor and shut it fast behind them.

He glanced at her several times as they moved through the castle to the Entrance Hall and beyond.

'Now, then,' he said briskly. 'What's this I hear about you being forced to take leave at work?'

She shot him a scandalised expression. 'I wasn't forced!' She groaned loudly. 'That's the rumour going round the office, is it? Bloody great!'

She grumbled under her breath about how Brigg's could look out when she returned and how she would prove to them she wasn't, actually, losing the plot.

When, later, he took his shard of the Mirror of Erised and stamped his foot on it, he was sure, for once, that he wasn't losing the plot, either. Healer Granger, Hermione, smiled as she Banished the fragments into nothingness, and the small action resonated within him as if he were being released from a stronghold, admittedly, of his own making, and where she, not Lily, might help him finally fulfil a potential he'd once, many years ago, secretly always imagined himself as having.

* * *

 **FIN**


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